climb a mountain and turn around

After a tough couple of weeks on the ward and in the ICU, this weekend away was just what I needed.

We woke up before four in the morning and stumbled down onto the dock, the night still thick around us. When the cars finally arrived, we climbed in and made our way through Benin and over the border into Togo with little ceremony. Our driver, Spiro, was taciturn, his silence most likely stemming from the fact that he understands about ten words of English. He seemed bent on getting us there as fast as possible, weaving in and out of the steadily growing traffic, lurching over speed bumps and jerking around potholes. I kept my eyes shut for as much of the journey as possible, choosing to believe that if I couldn't see the danger, it couldn't possibly be real.

When we reached the town of Kpalime, nestled into the shadow of Mount Agou, about two hours north of where the ship will be docked next year, we stopped for some Fan Milk and some directions. After refreshing ourselves with the little rectangular pouches of ice cream we arrived at the hotel, where we all promptly fell asleep on the concrete around the pool. The afternoon was spent in napping and exploring the town before we came back to the hotel and feasted on steak and fries.

On Friday, we climbed the mountain. Our guides, Gregory and Jean Baptise, stopped us at the base of the mountain and explained that we would be taking the small way up, that we should be careful, that there would be two more villages before we reached the top. We set out in good spirits, our guides carrying food for lunch, our feet steady on the path. Gregory spent a good portion of the time singing, and for a while we had enough breath to join in.



Before long, it became clear what they had meant by the small way. In plain English, it turns out that this translates to, You will be going straight up the side of the mountain. Even though it's overcast, you will soon be drenched in sweat. There will be rocks, like a never-ending staircase, and you will climb them until your calves beg you for mercy. And Gregory will sing the whole time.

When we reached the first village, we stopped for a while to catch our collective breath before pressing on. The jungle closed in around us, branches and long saw-edged grasses clutching at our clothes as we squeezed through, and still the rocky stairs led up up up. The searing pain in my legs took my attention away from the fact that I couldn't really breathe and then, all of a sudden, we saw houses through the trees.

How can I explain that second village to you? From our vantage point we could see for miles. Towns and villages dotted the valley below us, smoke from cooking fires rising in wisps into the damp air. Everything was green and orange and brown, and the little mud-walled houses clung to the side of the mountain behind us, turning up their noses at the inexorable pull of gravity that threatened to send them spinning down down down. Ropes strung between the houses held lappas in every color of the rainbow, and baby goats bleated their calls to their mothers as they tested their tiny legs on the steep incline. Children materialized from nowhere, chanting their familiar song. Yovo, Yovo, bonsoir. Ca va bien, merci. They usually sing it to us to make fun of us, assuming that it's all white people know how to say in French, but way up on the side of the mountain, these little ones didn't even know enough of that language to know what they were singing.



After a picnic lunch of chicken sandwiches, fresh avocado and pineapple, all laid out on banana leaves that Gregory cut from the bush on our way up, we shouldered our bags and set out into the clouds. Our guides tried to get us to turn back, pointing out that the cloud covering the top of the mountain meant that we weren't going to see anything once we got there, but we hadn't come so far for nothing. We convinced them to lead on, and finally, bone-tired and sweat-drenched, we made it to the top. They were right, those guides of ours; there was nothing to see, but we stood at the edge of the cliff and let the rolling cloud wash over us, cooling us with its mist, and we knew that we had made it.

We set off down again by another route, greeting the old women and little children who squatted by the side of the road, spreading corn out to dry on top of lappas in the dirt. Our shins protested and even Gregory had fallen silent as we marched down towards to waiting van.

And then it was Sunday and time to make our way back to the ship. Spiro, silent as ever, drove us through the countryside towards the border, where I managed to negotiate the whole crossing in French, much to my own surprise. Our passports were stamped and we were back in the van, bumping and swerving our way towards the ship and I should have been scared but my hand was in my husband's and so I was invincible.

I can still see it now, sitting in that car, trying to remember a time when my life didn't look like this. Elephant grass stretching ten feet tall, curving over the road and swishing gently as we pass. The late afternoon sunlight turning everything to gold. Women walking slowly along the sides of the road, babies bouncing on their backs, their heads piled high with stacks of firewood or buckets of bread or any of a thousand things they were selling in the market that day. Everything smells like smoke and earth and rain, and the children look up from their place in the dirt and call out to us, their arms waving frantically, Yovo! Yovo!

I catch my husband's eye and we grin at each other, silently content to be sharing this adventure. The sign says Cotonou and the arrow points straight ahead and my heart says home.


(The rest of the photos are here)